Sofa King
by Jessica R Vance
Summary: "He'd been sitting on the sofa, minding his own business, when the consulting detective flopped down across him, adopting his customary 'thinking pose.'" Rated M for sexytimes.


Sofa King

S.J. Hartsfield

A/N: I apologize for the title.

Sherlock's head fell unceremoniously into John's lap, wrinkling the paper he'd only been holding for a few moments. He'd been sitting on the sofa, minding his own business, when the consulting detective flopped down across him, adopting his customary 'thinking pose.' They weren't on a case (at least so far as John knew), so he wasn't entirely sure what it was Sherlock had to think about.

"Uh," he began.

"I need to think," Sherlock said, curt, confirming. His eyes were closed, large hands pressed together before his lips. When it became clear that his explanation wasn't going to go any further than that, John sighed and shifted in his seat.

"I was already sitting here."

"Irrelevant."

John exhaled shortly through his nostrils. _Positively maddening._ "If you'll just shunt over for a moment," he offered, "I can get up. I've got a chair."

Silence. He shook his head and tried to negotiate continued reading of the paper with Sherlock's sudden presence. He tried a couple of different positions, but none of them seemed to work quite the way he wanted them to. The corner of the colour supplement brushed Sherlock's nose and he batted it away like a rankled cat. "Be still," he groused.

With a sigh, John folded the paper and tossed it aside. It landed scattered next to the sofa, and without that distraction, John had the opportunity to really examine exactly how awkward his new situation really was. He was still in his pajamas. Had he been wearing proper trousers or jeans, the pressure of Sherlock's curls on his... well, on his crotch, may not have been quite so obvious. As it was, he felt it quite acutely through the thin fabric, and he wasn't entirely sure what bothered him more: the fact that he could feel it or the fact that he wasn't exactly _put off._

Christ, it must have been a while since he'd had a date.

He cleared his throat loudly enough, he hoped, to elicit a reaction from his flatmate. Sure enough, the taller man cracked one eye open, thick brows stitched together with harassment. "What." It wasn't a question.

John opened his mouth, but discovered very suddenly that there was really no good way for one bloke to say to another, "Your head's on my John Thomas, d'you mind moving a bit?". So he only gestured, hoping that even Sherlock might be socially savvy enough to take the hint.

He wasn't. In fact, he opened both eyes and turned his face to look up at John and John felt his thick hair brushing against him through his trousers and _don't think about it,_ just ignore it and of course now he was _thinking about it_ and the worst thing he could do was _think about it_ -

"John."

Oh, good. Speaking made the back of his head buzz. John cleared his throat again, trying not to think about how he'd respond to the inevitable and intensely awkward question of _why is there an erection in my ear_.

But the question never came. Instead, Sherlock leaned up and altered his position, propping himself up on an elbow and turning a discerning gaze to John's lap. John could have died when he realized that Sherlock was scrutinizing the tented fabric the same way he might examine a cadaver in a back alley. It was humiliating.

"Stop that."

Is what he _would_ have said, if the ability to speak hadn't fled his throat when Sherlock actually reached out and brushed a hand over him.

Oh no. No, _no_, even Sherlock Holmes, interpersonal moron, had to know that this crossed several _very important lines _of flatmate etiquette. He had to know that this was not okay.

So why did John feel _so_ okay?

His voice was still stuck in his throat. Sherlock's hand hadn't stopped moving. His expression hadn't changed. John half-expected him to whip out a recorder and start making notes. But he didn't. He only studied him, eyes flicking back and forth to John's face, gauging reaction. John couldn't quite take a deep breath. Finally he managed to choke out, "What are you _doing_?"

Sherlock gave him The Look. Under normal circumstances, that look drove him mad, but now he found it strangely engaging. "I thought it was obvious," came the response, low and unabashed. His long, slim fingers moved up then, curling under the waistband of John's pajamas bottoms.

John made a sound somewhere along the lines of, "Shrrngn."

He was out in the open now, and he didn't even have time to wonder whether he should be embarrassed before Sherlock's hand began moving again, this time with considerably less of a barrier between that hand and John's - "Oh _God_," he added, leaning his head back and covering his eyes with both hands. He was confused and mortified and frightened and, against any sort of logic at all, deeply aroused. He chanced a peek through his fingers, eyes traveling down Sherlock's slender frame, and wasn't quite sure what to make of the rising point beneath his dressing gown. _There was no way this was actually happening._

When Sherlock's mouth closed around him, he bit his tongue to stop himself shouting. "Hhh-" he began. Sherlock, in his usual way, paid no attention to him. He tried again. "H-how do you even know how to _do_ that?" he asked hoarsely. Sherlock looked up at him, mouth still occupied, and damned if that didn't make the whole mess more enticing. He said everything he needed to with that look, smug and self-satisfied as it was.

_I know everything._

John's hand shot out, grabbing a handful of Sherlock's hair. "God," he revisited. Then, before he could stop himself, "This is _so_ weird." Sherlock's hand abandoned him, leaving his lips to the job, and he reached between the silken folds of his dressing gown. John wasn't sure whether that meant he agreed with him or not.

If he closed his eyes, John thought, the combination of Sherlock's mass of hair and full lips could almost fool him into believing that it was a girl who was swallowing him with such unexpected enthusiasm. That illusion lasted about thirty seconds – Sherlock shattered it by offering a low, decidedly unfeminine groan against John's skin. This made John open his eyes, and when he did, his gaze was instinctively drawn to the movement below Sherlock's waist. The dressing gown had fallen back, revealing him in full. Before John could stop himself, he was wondering what it would be like to reciprocate Sherlock's actions. After all, he thought, he didn't know what men tasted like. And wasn't Sherlock always saying that the only proper way to learn as much as possible is to _experience_ as much as possible?

A mad little giggle bubbled up on his tongue; he clamped his teeth down over it. He may not know much about what was happening, but he knew enough to know that _laughing_ was a fast and sure way to make it stop.

He shifted, leaning to the side. Poked the back of Sherlock's throat, which earned him a muffled, irritated sound. "Sorry," he hissed. "Just trying to…" He moved again and finally situated himself at eye level with Sherlock's still-moving hand, which he grabbed to stop it. Sherlock's ministrations on him paused, unsure for the first time. "S'okay," John said, assuring himself as much as Sherlock. "Just keep…" He moved Sherlock's hand out of the way, took a deep breath through the nose (he could smell something musky and strange and God, was that _him_?), and dove in before he could talk himself out of it.

Sherlock's mouth was still full, so the noise he made came out, "Ogh!" It occurred to John that this may very well be the first time Sherlock had had this done to him, and the thought was at once both comforting (how was he to know if John did it wrong?) and disconcerting (if he _did_ do it wrong, Sherlock might be put off for life). Oh well – best to just give it his all and try to mimic what he'd seen done to others.

Mouth occupied, John's ears kicked into overdrive. It seemed he could hear everything – the sigh of their laptops' fans, the hum of the refrigerator, the chattering people, barking dogs, growling cabs outside. And most especially, the sounds their mouths made on each other, slick smacking and slurping with an occasional exhalation. One of them kept moaning, and John wasn't prepared to swear in court that it wasn't him.

Sherlock grunted, and the next thing John knew, he was trying to choke down what he'd offered. He coughed, pulled back, dribbled some on the sofa (Gods_sake_), coughed again. He glared back at him, but apart from a slight inward pull around his eyes, Sherlock's expression didn't seem to have altered at all. John couldn't believe it. Well, maybe he could. But suddenly the pressure from Sherlock's mouth increased and John barely managed to choke out, "I'm – !" before he finished as well. He tried not to be impressed when Sherlock didn't spill a drop, but couldn't help feeling a surge of affection when he laid his head against John's leg, sighing with something that could only be contentment.

"All right?" he murmured. Sherlock nodded and reached out, groping along John's forearm. It took him a moment, but he realized with a start that Sherlock was reaching for his hand. He offered it, and their fingers twined together as though they were built to do so. It was startlingly intimate, even considering what had just happened, and John felt something in his stomach twist. It wasn't unpleasant. "Why did you do that?"

Sherlock's eyelids rose ever so slightly. If John didn't know any better, he'd say he looked _drowsy_. "You looked as though you needed it," he answered. Simple. His eyes slid fully open, and he wore the expression he often did when John admonished him for a social faux pas. "Should I not have?"

Well, that was a question, wasn't it? John rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. "I…" he began. Words, he knew, were very important to Sherlock, and he wanted to choose his carefully. "I think it's all right." He glanced down. Sherlock still looked worried. "It is. It is all right," he said. Sherlock's expression cleared. "But, um… just, for future reference… it's generally considered impolite to, uh…" Talking about it was even stranger than doing it. "To _do that_ in someone's mouth without warning them first."

"Oh." He looked anything but contrite. In fact, John saw the slightest spark of mischief in his eyes. "I'll remember. For next time."

John felt his face heat and hated himself for it. But when Sherlock closed his eyes once more and snuggled – honest-to-God _snuggled_ – back onto his leg, he couldn't fool himself into thinking that there wouldn't be a next time. He also couldn't _quite_ convince himself, as he began to drift off, that he wasn't looking forward to it.

The End


End file.
